Possession
by The Rebellious Observer
Summary: Hate is a pale and ineffectual word for what Draco Malfoy feels for Harry Potter. DracoHarry, very heavy R. Warnings: Extreme violence, metaphorical cannibalism, sexualized violence, probably some insanity. Not for the faint of heart.


**Title:** Possession  
**Rating:** Extremely heavy R  
**Pairing:** Draco/Harry  
**Summary:** Hate is a pale and ineffectual word for what Draco Malfoy feels for Harry Potter.  
**Warnings:** Extreme violence, metaphorical cannibalism, sexualized violence, probably some insanity. Not for the faint of heart.  
**Author's note:** I don't know what the fuck this is. But it scares me, a bit. o.O;; Also, herein lies the abuse of italics, just so you know.

Hate is a pale and ineffectual word for what Draco Malfoy feels for Harry Potter.

It doesn't—it doesn't _begin_ to cover the pus-festering boil-itch blossoming in the inflamed tissues of his chest—bloated and stark—wailing; screaming; gnashing and snapping razor-sharp cruel—too painful, too intense—a violence he couldn't ever—couldn't properly name, it would choke him to say it, it was too much to articulate properly, you couldn't imagine how much he—

There's something about Harry Potter that Draco wants to _hurt_—he wants to _punch_ that stupid beautiful fucking face clear in and feel his fist slide, canon-quick and powerful, through brains and bone and flimsy cartilage and squelch out through the other side, and it _still_ wouldn't be _enough_ because. he. hates. him. But it's so much _more_ than that.

Green eyes make Draco angry; goose-bumps pop out all over his skin and cold-hot shivers vibrate up his spine and make him _sweat_, and he wants the heavy-lidded flesh around those sickly Avada-Kedavra eyes to go puffy and purple and tender-delicate so his fist feels it for _days_—but Harry doesn't even look at him anymore, anyway, and that just makes things _worse_, and Draco, more than anything, wants to squeeze his fingers around Harry's matchstick-thin neck and _slam_ that scruffy head against a wall and _demand_ that he at least _look at him_, that dirty fucking _half-breed_—it was the least he could _possibly_ do, after all he's caused Draco, after all he's done, after—he could at least _acknowledge him_! 

The _nerve_ of him—the insufferable _nerve_ of him makes Draco see red—makes Draco blind with the bright, consuming crimson-wash of Gryffindor House, and Draco _hates it_, he—he—he fucking _shakes_ with it sometimes, when he thinks about those dull Slytherin-green eyes buried unbelievably within that thick stupid skull, smothered and sick in the garish, overwhelming _red_ of everything, and he won't even _look at him_, damn it, and Draco sometimes just wants to _gouge_ them out, because he can't _stand_ it—he _won't_ stand it!

Thick, out-of-control mops too black to ever be pretty make Draco want to bury his hands into that mass and _tear_; he gets the urge to just yank it all out in scalp-cemented _chunks_, and the fact that Harry doesn't even _know_—wouldn't _care_—is killing him; his useless rage devours him right to the core, and the next thing you know Draco Malfoy has eaten himself right up, and Harry Potter _doesn't fucking care_, and something should be done about this, because it just isn't right.

What _is_ right is the way Harry Potter flinches just _so_ when Draco hits a nerve, brutally and without tact on a Tuesday morning, and he hadn't even expected it, hadn't known his careless comment would make Harry jerk alert and come _alive_—such a beautiful fucking surprise that something that could be _hurt_ is still somewhere inside that horrible, apathetic boy—and, oh, Draco knows a bloody nose is a small thing to pay for this knowledge; Draco wants to slice Harry Potter open up-and-down his middle and press his face into the open, festering feast underneath that parted flesh—wants to gnaw on Harry's vulnerability; chew and scrape and masticate it all up with the exuberant force of his bared canines and swallow that mutilated mass into himself—lap up the sweet-smelling tang of victory from Harry's bitter defeat with a white-toothed smile, and fuck him, fuck him, fuckhimfuckhimFUCKHIM until he's got nothing left but blue-black hate and watering green eyes, and, oh, oh, _oh_, it would be so brilliant, so very brilliant to finally have Harry Potter hurt and hopeless under him, and, oh, and, oh, that rival loathing would be so fine and sour on his tongue, better than anything he could ever buy or provoke or imagine, and, oh—Harry Potter's trousers would be tangled around his ankles and his ratty underwear would grab at his knees, and that tiny Quidditch-toned arse would impaled so deeply on Draco's throbbing cock that the tip would tickle the back of his throat as he screamed, and, oh, Draco would come for days and days and _days_. That's what Draco wants.

Draco Malfoy hates—_more-than-hates_—Harry Potter far too much to ever give him over to Voldemort.

Because Harry Potter is _his_. Or he will be.


End file.
